


the path before us is clear (and it looks like this)

by mackdizzy



Series: Mack's Stan Twins Hurt Comfort [4]
Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: AUs, Aftermath of Torture, Aftermath of Violence, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fluff and Angst, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Post-Episode: s02e20 Weirdmageddon 3: Take Back the Falls, Post-Weirdmageddon
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-10
Updated: 2020-11-15
Packaged: 2021-03-08 18:07:18
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,033
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27490948
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mackdizzy/pseuds/mackdizzy
Summary: // he's a hero, and i'm a hero's brother. and i'm okay with that //or; a collection of stan twins hurt/comfort for comfortember 2020.
Relationships: Ford Pines & Stan Pines, non ship. not incest. kapeesh?
Series: Mack's Stan Twins Hurt Comfort [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2008978
Comments: 7
Kudos: 46
Collections: Comfortember 2020





	1. prompt 1--rescue

**Author's Note:**

> hello everyone, and welcome to comfortember! today, on the 10th day of the month, i bring you one whole prompt. tomorrow? who knows! probably nothing. 
> 
> [a LOT (a LOT) of this is inspired by per aspera by parsnipit, the fic that actually ticked me off that comfortember exists in the first place. it's self-indulgent personal therapy in the form of tooth-rotting hurt comfort, and a lot of it is going to be Better Rewrites of stuff on my page already that i may or may not delete.]
> 
> prompt 1--rescue
> 
> slight, awkward, weirdmageddon canon divergence. y'all should know the one by now, but i think it's KIND OF self-explanatory. this is a BETTER REWRITE of 'if loves a fight than i shall die with my heart on the trigger", an earlier fic on my page that im Really not proud of and will probably be deleted, as with many of these fics, probably.
> 
> TW'S: physical injury, near-death experience, aftermath of torture, vomiting

Stanley Pines doesn’t know why he was expecting a fairytale ending. 

He supposed it was the spell that did it. They needed fairy dust, butterfly essence, and unicorn hair for it. He snickered when Mabel recited this to him, figuring she was joking, but then he looked over and saw the familiar near-impossible-to-read looping of his brother’s script, and realized no, she wasn’t. Then, he’d swallowed past something thick in his throat, and pondered how they were going to get this to work when the town was in ash and fire and dust. “Dipper, can you see if Stanford’s got any of that in the basement?” He mumbled, trying to keep his heart in it as much as possible. “Mabel ‘n I will discuss….the rest of this shit with the town.” Normally, he’d be hesitant to send Dipper down there alone, but he’d done well enough for himself this past week on the streets to quell any worries Stan might’ve previously had. These kids were strong, tough. They knew how to handle themselves, and this  _ Weirdmageddon  _ had only solidified that.

_ Normally _ , in fact, he’d ask his brother about this weird mumbo-jumbo first, but nobody had seen heads or tails of him in days. Deep down, they all knew why; they knew that Bill had taken his brother away in the middle of town square, and he’d been with him ever since. This mission was half defeat-Bill-Cipher, half rescue-Ford-Pines, and they all knew (as much as they dismissed it to the rest of the town huddled in the next room over) that the latter was far more important. Sure, they had the “whole multiverse” to contend with, but Stanford was his  _ brother.  _

They reconvened a little while later; Dipper found the unicorn hair in the basement, but there wasn’t enough fairy dust to even get close to completing the spell, much less whatever the fuck  _ butterfly essence  _ was. So those, they had to venture themselves to get. 

It took days. Three days. Three days to get the bare minimum of what he needed. Stan had always been a sweet-talker; a true negotiator. Mabel followed right on his heels, her charm enough to wrap a nation around her pinkie finger. Dipper was quiet and slick, small and nimble and good at getting in-and-out of places. Wendy and Soos tagged along for support, but Stan didn’t trust anyone else on a mission like this. Still, three horrendous days later, fairy dust, butterfly essence, unicorn hair, and everything else too. They were starting to run  _ very  _ low on food, signs of hunger already showing on his niece and nephew’s face despite them getting their fair share more than anyone else in the shack. It worried him sick, straight through. They had to get this over with, and  _ fast.  _

The plan was simple. Stan split the crew up into teams to distract different flanks of Bill’s henchmen; he’d been running missions onto the streets to see how they navigated things, though any real evidence was hard to gather with the town under Bill’s iron grip. The part he was most reluctant about was letting the kids go after Bill themselves; he felt like maybe the worst guardian in the world, much less any great uncle deserving of their love, letting them go do that. But the kids argued that too many people on spell-duty would just make it harder to deliver, and they knew his tactics better than anyone else. It was with a set jaw that Stan agreed, and followed two pairs of footsteps running off against the ashen dirt with his eyes in the hopes he wasn’t sending them to their deaths.

His own initiative was much, much simpler: Go rescue his brother.

That was his own duty, after all, for not being there for him in the first place. Sure, he’d rounded up half the town to stop Bill eventually, made plans for action and all that, but it was Ford’s spell doing all the work. Ford facing Bill all by himself for the past over-a-week. Ford who--god, Stan didn’t even want to think about what shape he would be in, inside. 

He had hope, though. A  _ gut feeling  _ that told him if Ford was dead, he would just  _ know.  _ Through Bill, or some other change in their new little apocalypse-world, or just his own twinstinct. So he could hope. That’s what he’s doing, as he stumbles through the halls of the Fearamid; he’s hoping.  _ Just let him be alive,  _ he thinks.  _ I can do the rest.  _ Spells and books and the paranormal, that’s what Ford knows. This is what he knows; getting people back on their feet when they’ve been beaten down.

All this  _ rational thought  _ goes out the window when he finds his brother. At first he doesn’t see any heads or tails of Stanford, actually, just a ratty trenchcoat stained scarlet in a heap by the corner. He’d seen lots of strange, discarded articles of clothing and toppled pieces of furniture he’d thought best not to question as he’d navigated the  _ maze  _ of this pyramid-palace-thing, guided only on his gut alone, so he almost runs by when he realizes that no, no, he  _ knows  _ that coat.

His heart stops dead in his chest. He doesn’t make it over standing upright; he collapses halfway there and scampers the rest of the way on his hands and knees. He can hear crashes, shouts, the sounds of battle--Bill’s ear-piercing, annoying chatter--in the background. He places a hand on the wall to steady himself, and it crumbles to dust underneath his fingertips. Outside, something demonic screams.  _ It’s working,  _ he realizes, but can’t feel anything but panic.

“Okay, okay, buddy.” He mumbles, turning Stanford over; only problem is, he’s met with resistance. Stanford, he discovers, is chained to the wall like an animal. Bad news. Good news, the wall appears to be coming apart okay if he meets  _ it  _ with enough resistance. That’s enough of a step one. 

Actually, no. Step one is check for a pulse, because that’s something he  _ can’t seem to find.  _ His hands dart over Stanford’s body. He first tries to press two fingers onto his wrist, under where it’s bound, but he hisses and pulls his hand back; the contact  _ burns  _ his fingers, white hot, and as he gingerly presses down he realizes they’re still burning into  _ Ford,  _ around his wrists and ankles and neck, and he doesn’t even know how long that’s been going on for, and he was too late, and Ford isn’t breathing, Ford has no pulse, he can’t find a pulse he’s  _ too late he’s too late he’s too late-- _

Ford breathes. It’s more like a gasp, actually. He doubles over and yanks his wrists as far as they’ll go towards his stomach and  _ chokes  _ for air like he’ll never get enough of it again. Stan makes a wordless noise in the back of s throat, trying to sound comforting. “That’s okay, just breathe.” He soothes, and he’s surprised at how much he struggles to get the words out. “It’s me, Poindexter, it’s me, it’s Stanley. Just breathe.”

He forces his brain to shut down while he works. He doesn’t want to think about the abrasions or cuts bruising over or dripping blood onto the floor. He doesn’t want to think about the fracture he feels against his brother’s leg or the  _ deathly  _ high fever across his body. He doesn’t want to  _ think.  _ He  _ wants  _ to sit with Ford until he’s breathing properly, but he sort of has the matter on whether or not he’s going to  _ live  _ to worry about.

__ He pushes some of Ford’s hair, matted with sweat and scarlet red, off of his face, wipes the tears from his eyes. The tears hurt him inside worse than the blood, he thinks. “Shh, shh.” He mutters again in response to Ford’s choking gasps; they’re not proper breaths, but they’re something, they’re proof that he’s  _ alive.  _ He needs to get these chains off, first and foremost; they blister his skin, but he slips one of the pins always on him into the slits one at a time and manages them off his neck first, then his wrists, then his ankles.

He ignores the burns--second and third degree together, which has to hurt like hell, but he  _ ignores it-- _ all the way around him and takes a moment to hold Ford properly and  _ breathe.  _ Twelve bloodstained fingers clutch weakly at his shirt, Ford slurs his name, and he has to stop to consider whether it’s okay to let Ford sleep, or whether he needs to keep him awake. He decides on the former with some hesitation, but-- _ no.  _ Ford is not in fatal danger. He’s not going to let him die. That’s simply not an option. “Mmmhm.” He responds, pressing his brother’s face close to his chest. Blood from his hair stains the white of his shirt. “It’s me, it’s Stanley.” He repeats; even though it looks like Ford already knows that, it settles him to reassure. “I’m right here. You’re safe now, okay?” Except, he doesn’t know that for sure. For all he knows, Bill could be looming just outside, kids already captured, waiting to finish them off. But Ford doesn’t need to know that. He  _ can’t.  _ “I’ve gotcha. Just rest, now.”

He turns out to be right in the end about the happy ending; as right as he can be, as happy as it can get. The town is gathered around its two heroes—who look a little strange at waist-height, but Stan can’t help but beam with pride—by the time he returns, shooing them away from the rest of Bill’s henchmaniacs; but most of them have scattered in the aftermath regardless. Bill’s pyramid-palace-thing is nothing more than a stack of crumbling bricks behind him, and with that hope he thinks, for a second, that his family is going to be okay, too, that Ford’s injuries are going to patch themselves up in a single second.

This does not happen. He doesn’t know why he was expecting a fairytale ending. Dipper and Mabel’s eyes widen when they see him struggling to hold Ford up and start to run towards him to check on their uncle, and hastily, he gives Wendy a  _ look  _ that says a thousand words: she herds the kids off to the side, and he gives a nod that has a clearer meaning;  _ I’m giving you, like, a 60 percent raise after this. _

He gets Ford into the car, buckling him into the passenger seat and slinging his own coat off his shoulders to put around him. Ford struggles on the line of consciousness, breathing raspy and muscles constricting out of his control every few minutes. He doesn’t know exactly what caused the latter, but he has a few ideas, and he doesn’t like the thought of any of them. “That’s okay, Sixer.” He soothes, his voice rough and distressed, as he puts the car into  _ drive.  _ “You’re doin’ so good, just keep breathin’.” 

He debates, for way too many seconds too long sitting in gear doing nothing, between  _ hospital  _ and  _ home.  _ He eventually decides on the latter. These injuries might be hard to explain, and Ford might panic if he regains his cognizance somewhere unfamiliar. Besides, as much as he hates to admit it, he feels more than a bit responsible for the safety and well-being of his brother right now. So home he goes, taking very little consideration into road safety laws as he drives; he’s only focused on getting his brother somewhere safe as quickly as possible.

Ford’s bedroom is upstairs, and he doesn’t want to waste time or put his back in misery carrying him up the stairs, so he brings him into his own room instead. As soon as he lays Ford down his muscles contract again and he goes stiff, hissing in pain between his teeth, and then he relaxes for a moment, and then he leans over the bed and retches, blood coming up with everything else. Stan just lets him get it out until he’s done, until he falls back onto the sheets with a miserable whimper. “‘S okay, Sixer, it’s over, you’re okay.”

He cleans up first, because he _knows_ it’s going to bother Ford if he doesn’t, and then removes Ford’s blood-stained clothes, careful to note where he hisses and squirms in pain. Ford has always been terrible with pain; his tolerance for it is quite low, but he squirrels it away because he thinks it makes him an inconvenience, and he thinks the multiverse has given him some immunity. He knows this next part, the first aid, isn’t going to be fun, but he has to get it out of the way if he wants to feel at all like Ford is once again safe in his hands.

Fever first. He makes his way into the bathroom off his room, plugs the stop and fills up the sink with cold water, grabs three washcloths from above the sink, and soaks them both before wringing them out and shutting off the faucet. He uses one of the washcloths to wipe the blood and dirt off Ford’s face, lays the second over his forehead, and the third behind his neck. Ford makes a high-pitched whine in the back of his throat when the third towel is placed down against his burns, and Stan winces, trying to keep the shards of his heart together. “Sorry, Six.” He mumbles. “But this’ll get you nice and cooled off, then you’ll be feeling much better, okay?” Ford doesn’t answer out loud, but he’s still breathing, still fighting, still  _ alive. _

That’s a miracle all on its own.

Doctoring Ford up takes the good part of the next two hours, partially because he goes only as quickly as he can with his brother’s pained noises stabbing his insides better than any knife. First he sets his left shoulder back into place; it’s a lot harder than dumb cop shows make it out to be, and it takes a good few minutes jostling with the twisted muscle. He moves Ford’s other hand to his chest and breathes slowly, trying to get him to match. “Breathe with me, come on, you can do it.” He soothes. He counted up to five then back down to one as he worked, hoping Ford would start breathing to the rhythm. It worked, somewhat. That was better than nothing.

Next he crossed to one of his dresser drawers and pulled out a few old tank tops. He tore them down the middle and tied them around Ford’s presumably fractured leg to make a temporary splint, grabbing some pillows to elevate it. He keeps mumbling reassurances as he goes,  _ you’re alright now  _ and  _ he won’t hurt you anymore, he can’t  _ and all that jazz; Ford’s breathing better now, which he takes as a victory.

It’s around this time that Ford starts sweating all over, the temperature in the room spiking, and Stan can practically feel the relief that crashes into him like a truck. “There we go.” He swaps the towels out for fresher, cooler ones anyway, feeling a lot less like he’s going to lose his composure any minute, now. “That’s good, Stanford, fever’s going down.” He says to try and reassure him as he lifts his head gently again. “You just keep restin’ and everything will be alright.”

Now it’s time to bust out the first aid kid and do the crucial three; clean, disinfect, bandage. Ford’s wrists and ankles and neck take the most time, and Stan mumbles  _ sorry, sorry, sorry  _ the whole time as if that will help that Ford can do little more than whine in response. He hates that he’s hurting the person who trusts him to keep him safe, but at this point it’s this or let him die, and that was never an option. Stan is just relieved at the end of the day that nothing needs stitches--surprised, but relieved.

The sun has already set by the time he finishes, but the town’s sounds are still livelier than usual. He uses the phone on the end-table to talk to Wendy; she’s at the diner with the kids, apparently there’s a big celebration going on and everyone misses him and Ford terribly and what not. Mabel tries to speak to him whilst simultaneously stuffing her mouth full of pancakes, and Dipper joins in whilst simultaneously trying to get her to stop doing that, and he feels like things are gonna be okay, maybe, even. “Ford’s alright.” He reassures, though he can’t really be sure of that. “Wendy, just bring the kids home when you’re done? You two had better get right to bed.”

He goes back to check on Ford once the call is over; he’s curled up in a ball again, arms locked around his knees, muscles tight and unyielding. Stan exhales long and slow and sits on the bed next to him. He massages his fingers into his scalp, then moves down to his shoulders, rubbing until Ford relaxes. It only lasts a minute though, before he goes tight all over again with a hiss between his teeth. 

“It hurts.” His brother mumbles like a scared kid, and something inside of Stan is breaking. 

“I know, poindexter.” He mumbles. He gently places his hands behind Ford’s (good) shoulder, elevates him a bit, and holds a bottle of water up to his lips. “Think you can drink some?” He asks, infinitely gentle. But Ford’s jaw is locked too, and it takes a few more minutes of massaging to get him relaxed enough to drink. Once he does, though, he drinks in gulps like he’s never had water in his life, and Stan needs to pull the bottle away eventually, sighing. “Pace yourself.” He mutters, brushing some hair away from Ford’s eyes.

He removes both their glasses and shuts off the light after he lays Ford back down, considering his work done and crawling into bed with Ford. It’s a tight squeeze, but they slept in smaller areas frequently as kids. Ford squirms, and Stan pulls him onto his chest, pressing his lips against his forehead. It’s about that time he hears four voices outside his door, his employees and the voices of two children, and he calls out softly. “Head to bed, kiddos, I’ll make stancakes tomorrow.” No such thing as too many pancakes, right?

Ford, half-coherent, mumbles something. Stan’s lips go back to his forehead, and he whispers, softly. “What was that?”

“Than’you.” Ford slurs. His leg twitches, but he relaxes shortly after, to Stan’s immense relief. “Dunno what….I’have’done if you ‘adn’t—“

“Sh, sh.” Stan tuts. “I was always gonna come, knucklehead. I will  _ always  _ come for you, you hear me?”

It’s silent for a moment before Ford just nods, and he goes limp against him a moment after. He’s got enough consciousness in him to nod again in response to Stan’s soft whisper of  _ “Love you, Ford.”  _ Not enough left to respond, but put to rest by the scampering of four twelve year old feet above him, the thought of what kinds of syrup he still had in the cupboard, and his brother’s very-alive heartbeat until his palm, Stan knows what it would be anyways.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  



	2. prompt 3--nightmare

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [rated T for MINOR violence and MILD sexual ideation]  
> [TW'S: nightmares, past abusive relationships, blood, torture, electrocution, smoking. violence is VERY brief]
> 
> gets billford-y (not condoned). human bill. or like, demon bill but not a triangle. also bill smokes. thats my only comment here. its wildly important. its 1:30 in the morning. i love you, stanford and stanley pines.

Four fingers tangle through your hair. You have pondered the nature of Bill’s four fingers many times; your six, after all, have always been the bane of your existence; the thing that made you feel like a  _ freak,  _ the thing that drove you apart from every other human being. Now, they have a match. It’s not perfect; folding your hands in His is a gesture that is awkward at best many times. But something about it just makes sense. Four and Six make ten. He makes you normal. He thinks you’re so much more.

You press a kiss to His jawline. Then upwards, towards His cheek. He does not like it when you look into His eyes; you spend more time looking at His feet, because He likes to feel superior to you. You can’t say you mind that, because it is worlds better than being without Him. You swap places. His lips linger by your jawline, and then dip lower. You do not put your hands in His hair, though, because He hates to be touched, slaps your wrist for touching Him without explicit permission. This is the opposite of you, who would spend weeks on your knees if it meant touching Him-- _ being  _ touched by Him--for a few scarce moments longer.

His tongue traces old marks, places on your skin that hold stories, shapes you’ve committed to memory. They are seen, sometimes; by Fiddleford, by the clerk at the grocery store or the waitress at Greasy’s. You let them stare. You let them ask. He leaves you with souvenirs, you know, because He likes to hold power over you in the real world, too. One day, every touch of His will be a souvenir; there will be no divide between your world and His, and everything He touches will be heaven.

“I love You.” You laugh. His lips dip lower. You curl a hand in His hair. He slaps your wrist.

You wake up.

  
  


Bill flicks the ashes off the end of his cigarette. It reminds you of the way He smokes after intercourse; He is a dream demon, so this prospect has always been humorous to you, but you think it might be His way of avoiding your desire for cuddles. The smell bothers you, but not as much on Him. It’s another thing to inhale, His smell of ambrosia and copper and earth. The prospect of Him doing it now, though, one hand on his hip and cocky eyebrow raised, buries somewhere in your heart like a knife.

He is trying to avoid you purposefully. He always has.

“You know, you really get on my nerves, Sixer.” He throws the cigarette down and stomps it out. “I mean, all this shit about  _ love _ _?  _ You’re a proper dolt!” His laugh has never fit His personality, you have always thought, apart from the fact that it is loud. But now it is high pitched and grating and--and it  _ hurts.  _ “ _ Surely  _ you didn’t think I  _ loved  _ you, Stanford!” 

“I did.” It’s barely more than a whisper. You look at your own feet; you can barely look at his.

“ _Aw, how cute!”_ He coos, and He almost looks touched for a minute. He lifts your chin, pinches your cheek, rakes his nails over a mark under your jawline. “\ That was just your mistake.”

You wake up.

  
  


You wake up in your bed in your house in Gravity Falls, Oregon. You sit up, but your worldview flickers in front of you, like it doesn’t know where you are. You don’t know where you are, any more. You ride shotgun to your own life. The smoke and dust clears and you are on your bathroom floor. You peel yourself off the floor and press your hand tightly to your right eye, hissing a breath in between your teeth. You pull your hand back, and the bottom of the palm is stained with liquid scarlet. You can’t  _ see  _ through the red liquid clouding your vision with pain, pain,  _ pain.  _ Slowly, you make your way to the mirror, brace your wet hands on the countertop, prepare for impact. 

A stream of cherry red runs down the side of your face. It burns as you wipe it away, grabbing a washcloth from above the sink and scrubbing furiously to try and see past the red. You can’t. The more you cry, the more it bleeds, and you are practically sobbing. “Don’t leave me.” You choke out, curling your fingertips around the countertop. There’s a burning sensation in your chest, but it’s not your heart. You think it’s literal. The skin burns when you touch your fingers there. Something has burned you, not on accident, and it hurts. “Don’t leave me, I love You.”

Your vision goes red, and you wake up again.

  
  


You wake up flat on your back. You’re on a couch. The room is lit by the soft glow of a fire, and you can feel a warmth on your shoulders. You sit up and rub your head; it’s dark, but you can tell there’s a plush carpet underneath you. No doors or windows, just decorations in red and gold. You feel contented here. You want to lie back on this couch and let it consume you. You want to feed at the hand that has brought you here, bathe where an atmosphere surrounds you like comfort and belonging and love. You shut your eyes. You taste ambrosia and copper and Earth. Your lips part on instinct, waiting for an intrusion. The couch is fabric and thread, not living flesh, but you know it still.

_ You know this couch.  _

You wake again, again, again, again, again. You cannot stop waking up with choking gasp after choking gasp. You force yourself into consciousness; you can’t pass out, not on Him. The shackles on your wrists and ankles hang hot and heavy; they burn your skin, so much more vividly than any brand 30 years ago. There is the feeling of needles on your skin; with every moment they intensify. You can hardly breathe, the pain stinging behind your eyes and choking you and you think you might die here, like some cruel plaything for His amusement; that’s what hurts most. You loved Him once and it burns in you, hot and fiery; all you want to do is roll over, play dead, and maybe work it out to completion, hide from the pain, the pain, the searing pain, it  _ hurts it hurts it hurts  _ **_it hur--_ **

  
  
  


“---ford. Stanford!  _ Stanford!”  _

There are warm hands gripping your shoulders, shaking you back into consciousness. You wake up, and thank  _ stars,  _ it’s the last time. Unless this is some cruel joke, the idea of you and your brother out on the Arctic Ocean, rebuilding a relationship, something else for Him to take away from you, but; 

No. No. You are  _ awake.  _ Stanley’s eyes are large and concerned as you roll over and raise your eyebrows, making a soft, disoriented noise. That’s right. You are on the ocean, and your brother is here. You reach out a hand weakly and he takes it in his own, five fingers massaging your six gently. “You were yellin’ in your sleep.” He mumbles, eyebrows creased in worry. 

“....What exactly?”

“Nothin’ in particular, just yelling.” Stan averts his eyes. To anyone else, he can lie; not to you.

“Lee?”

“...My name,” He grumbles, shoving one hand in his pocket (the other one stays on yours). “You were yelling for me.”

He seems...off put by this, unsettled. You sit up a bit more and lean, unconsciously, forward; he opens his arms for you, but the position is a bit uncomfortable so you kick off the blankets in a mess and jump, landing square on the floor and then sitting on it, against his bed, knees pulled to your chest, staring into the darkness beyond.

“Bill?”

You nod once, stiffly.

“Wanna talk about it?” He sits down next to you, and you scooch a little closer to his side, raise a shoulder into the air.

“Lots of things. Um, all over--the early days.” You squeeze your eyes shut, tightly, as if that will keep out the onset of tears. “Then when he left me, and then later, the bad stuff. Ending at Weirdmageddon.” You purse your lips, swallow past the knot in his throat. “It tends to. Until I wake up.” 

“This isn’t the first time you’ve dreamed about it?”

You laugh, garish and grating, and shake your head, hugging your knees a little tighter to your chest. That’s all you give in way of an answer, but social cues be damned, you think it’s obvious enough.

“Has it happened since we’ve gotten out here?”

“....Nearly every night.” You eventually cave. “Different forms-- I don’t always dream about the younger days. But I’m lucky to sleep without having the same Weirdmageddon dream.” You lean your head on his shoulders and fidget with your sleeves. “It never leaves me. It  _ hurts,  _ Stanley, it’s like I’m there again and it  _ hu--” _

“Okay, sh, sh-sh-sh-...” Stan soothes, reaching his hand into your hair and scratching at your scalp. You go limp and make a baseless noise in the back of your throat, one that turns into a whine when he _ stands,  _ and for a moment it’s  _ going to leave me just like they all do, just like  _ _ He  _ _ did-- _

“Buddy, it’s okay, just going back here.” He mumbles from behinds you, settled into his bunk. You crane your head towards him; he stretches out his arms and you nuzzle into them. He knows that sometimes you need to feel protected, when your memories crop up in nasty ways, and that means going somewhere you can feel closed up, and your brother’s arms are better than most spots, for that. You breathe in the salt-and-pancake-batter smell of him, listen to the in-out candor of his heart. “Breathe with me, Sixer.” He mumbles, and the nickname leaves you spent but that’s all, and you don’t protest, forcing your hitching breaths to smooth to his.

“There we go, good job.” He mumbles, tucking the blankets in around your shoulders. He hooks his head over yours, and you look at him impertinently until he starts humming. Your mom used to sing you lullabies, the both of you, and even though he’s no chanteur he loves music, and the tunes are familiar. “Stay here tonight.” He mumbles, talking interspersed with his humming, and you nod, going limp against his chest. You’re still buried there, where it’s dark and secure and his arms protect you better than any weapon, from demons that will hurt you with electric shocks and gods that will hurt you with Their kindness. 

“I love you.” You whisper. His lips press to your forehead. You curl a hand in his shirt. He brushes the hair away from your eyes.

You sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> would rlly appreciate some comments if you enjoyed! thanks lots!

**Author's Note:**

> more prompts to come later? maybe. probably. have fun, y'all, and if you enjoyed id love some comments!


End file.
